


Silhouette

by whimsical_ramblings



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blood Loss, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsical_ramblings/pseuds/whimsical_ramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ocelot wonders if this is what if feels like to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silhouette

The pain didn’t register right away when the bullet ripped through the skin and muscle of his throat. It never did. That was the one thing you could always count on with gunshot wounds; the pain never kicks in immediately. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing, after all. There’s pressure, and the skin always burns. But there’s never pain, not at first. This is something Ocelot takes comfort in. Pain wasn’t something he was necessarily afraid of, but too much of it could become troublesome, and the less of it there was to deal with, the easier it was for him to drag himself away from a fight in one piece. It only took Ocelot a few seconds after the initial impact of the bullet for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen this time.

One of the first things he was acutely aware of was his gun slipping from his hand. He tried to close his fingers around it, to catch it before it fell, but it was as if some switch had been turned off inside of him, some wire cut. Before he knew it, the world became murky and blurred, and his body crumpled to the ground.

“Ocelot!”

He heard someone yelling for him, but his name sounded distorted to his own ears, far away and hollow. It melted with the sounds of gunshots and footsteps until everything became almost meaningless. And then the voice was next to him, its knees sliding in the dirt, its hand hesitantly grabbing his shoulder. It felt so familiar, and he started to turn his head to see who it belonged to.

“Shit, Boss, he’s moving!” the voice said, and another set of hands found their way to either side of his head, holding him still as a new voice mixed its way into the confusing blur of noises, barking orders that Ocelot couldn’t fully understand.

“Kaz, call for backup! And tell them to bring medical!”

A face was above his, one he was sure he’d seen before, its one blue eye sharp and bright against the backdrop of a scarred face.

“He’s gonna bleed out,” the first voice said, sounding more desperate than before.

Bleed out. Bleed. Was he bleeding? He glanced down and found the top of his chest dyed a deep red, his shirt completely soaked, and he gasped for air when he realized it was filling his mouth, his lungs, his stomach. A frantic hand groped at his neck, the fingers shaking as they tried to keep the wound closed, and Ocelot wondered vaguely if he was going to die. The hand on his throat must have slipped suddenly, because his neck was shifted without warning, and he bucked against it, pain shooting down his spine as he choked on the blood filling his lungs.

“God damnit, Kaz, you’re gonna break his neck!” someone said, someone Ocelot knew belonged to the face he’d seen before, and something about it comforted him. That someone’s hands replaced Kaz’s on his neck and a new set of fingers wrapped around the wound.

“He’s not moving anymore,” said that hands’ owner, and that blue eye was staring down at him again.

“Ocelot.”

It was calling out to him. Ocelot tried to answer, but he couldn’t seem to find his tongue. The world was started to get dark.

“Ocelot.”

The eye was closer now, and Ocelot was able to make out the rest of his face. The brows knotted in the middle of his forehead, the black leather of his eyepatch, the scar that ran across his nose. _John_. He mouthed his name, trying to speak, but could only choke out empty noises. His eyelids started to feel heavy again. He was so tired…

“ _Adam_.”

There was always a certain amount of shock to hearing his actual name spoken aloud. Maybe it was because Adam didn’t feel real anymore. There was no Adam, not really. And, he supposed, there was no John either.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a chopper hovering over them, the rhythmic beating of its blades against the air more soothing than he’d remembered it ever being, and it begged him to let go, to slip away. A thumb, sticky with blood, brushed against his jaw.

“Fuck, we’re losing him,” he heard John say.

Whatever happened next was lost to him.


End file.
